The Becoming

Messy / leftover / crocked magical potion.

Phases, Oh mazes of brutally scarred layers Of me, I wonder how did I ever sleep in one bed when it felt like every piece of me was in a different home. To all the hearts I broke through the becoming of me, I’m sorry. If the times could ever turn I’d wholeheartedly give you a bloody red rose and tell you “I’m sorry, I’m the bad chapter of your story, I was on my journey of exploring all of me through you.” It’s always been there, the never ending ticking at the farthest back of my mind saying ‘tick tock you never going to make it, you never going to find your reflection in the mirror’. And I cannot help but learn to live with my bare shoulder holding all the deadly knife full blocks of steal, while ever so softly holding my paint brush drawing in my eyeliner every morning before work. I cannot help but accept that sometimes I feel like there are a hundred pair of eyes judging every breath and organ in me while I’m actually all alone in my room, I’m frustrated not at myself, but at my therapist who told me “ the becoming of you will be beautiful”, because all I get are screams echoing around my empty house. It’s like there’s a fight, somehow somewhere inside me there’s a pull and push, scar for a scar, a kiss for a kiss fight inside of me and the judge is the killer.

To all the hearts, including mine, I broke through the becoming of me, I’m so so sorry.